Waver
by wefoundhumor
Summary: A series of short stories, in no particular order, following the rocky relationship of Anders and a Hawke wary of magic.


She tempts them. She roams every street she can find in Kirkwall, equipped with nothing but cheap armor and a dagger, and she tempts them. Hawke is an irresistible target for bandits, and bandits are an irresistible solution for Hawke's rage. If you listen to the sounds outside your door, you can hear her marching through, scuffling with whoever provokes her blade. She has become a folk tale, of sorts. The children whisper among themselves about the city's protector. Their parents hear them, but they let the whispers go, knowing the truth is not so pretty.

She is just a grieving daughter.

During the day, she stays in. She never leaves her room, not without a glare and tired eyes. For a time, not even her friends visit. They want to, but they know not to. They know she will offer them nothing more than displays of anger. Bodahn takes to forging letters asking for assistance to coax her outside, to coax her out of that anger, but she sees through them all.

He invites Aveline to stop by, and she does, sharing updates about the city. She hopes the tidbits of trouble encourage Hawke to leave the estate, but they never do. One of these days, something will happen that catches her curiosity. Aveline will try again tomorrow, and the next day, and the next.

The others begin to stop by, as well. They move their poker game to the Hawke Estate, and though it is only a weekly occurrence, Varric uses it as an excuse to stop by mostly every day. She hardly responds to him when he does, offering only grunts and sighs, but he presses on as though it is the highlight of his day.

Isabela and Merrill drop in, usually unannounced, and leave messages throughout the house for Hawke to find later. They never actually see her in person, not after being caught during one visit and Hawke demanding Merrill leave her sight. Merrill knows it is the grief talking, but it stings nonetheless.

One night, for no unique reason, Fenris joins her in her walk. He says nothing to her, and she does not acknowledge him, but they are at each other's side. When the bandits jump them, he is ever at the ready. Their backs bump together during the fight, as they often do, and just briefly, she smiles and remembers what it's like to be _Hawke._

The next day, Sebastian arrives with candles in his hands. He pushes Hawke into Leandra's room - it is the first time she's entered it since her mother's death and she struggles and argues with him every step. But he ignores this and places candles on a table in the room. He kneels down, pulling Hawke with him, and hands her matches. She stares at them for several moments, but Sebastian does not waver. He stays on his knees, he stays beside her, he stays quiet. She lights the candle, finally, and he prays. It is only faint, but he hears her join in.

It is only toward the end of her grieving period that Anders visits. He spoke to her once after Leandra's death, and she screamed herself hoarse at him. This time, he sneaks in through the entrance near his clinic, knowing Bodahn will be asleep at this hour and, likely, so will Hawke. He steps into her bedroom and finds her laying in bed, staring at the fire in the mantle. Her blankets are kicked to the floor, her pillow is misplaced, and he is not oblivious to the signs of nightmares. He clears his throat, but she doesn't look at him. She only sits up, moving her legs off the bed and gripping the edge with calloused fingers. He doubts it is an invitation, but he takes it as one, sitting down beside her. He is surprised when she doesn't protest.

He says nothing. It is fragile, the situation he has placed himself in. She may not have joined the Order, but she could have easily been a Templar, in training and belief. He watched as it all tore away - watched as the doubt _he_ put in her mind grew stronger. She had come so far in favor of mages, only to be dealt a blow as painful as Leandra's death. He knows how easy it would be to undo all he's worked toward with just the wrong word or expression. For the first time in a long time, he is nervous.

"I know you're angry," He begins, slowly and carefully, "Take it all out on me. It's okay."

"I don't want to argue right now." It is a whisper, a cracked voice from a dry throat, but its volume is loud in the silence of her room, and it startles him slightly.

"Whatever you want, I'm here," He replies after a moment of calculation.

She is quiet for a few beats, tightening her grip on the edge of her bed. Her hair is down, hiding parts of her face from his view, but he is almost positive he sees newly red blotches across her cheeks. "Can we put away our pride for tonight?"

His initial reaction is denial, but he knows how it is. Neither of them are blind, nor ignorant. They had kissed once, in the heat of an argument as he almost yelled the words of his manifesto to her. Neither of them wanted to pull away, but both of them pretended it never happened the next day. If not for that pride, if not for the inhibitions of their stubborn personalities, the bed they're sitting on now would not just be hers. But the inhibitions are there. She's too proud to admit she's wrong, and he's too proud to tell her how he feels. Things both of them know already, but are too proud to act without hearing first. Sitting next to her now, being near her after weeks of her absence, he realizes how stupid it all is. He nods to her question, waiting for her to continue.

She looks down, still hesitant, and he watches her fingers curl into themselves. "Just... Lay with me tonight." It is a chaste request, and the fear and embarrassment he hears in her voice is enough to unravel him and convince him that their pride should never be brought back into the equation.

He stands from the bed and she watches him with a constricting chest, doubting the dynamic she thought they both knew was between them. She quickly realizes her fear is premature as he bends down to pick up the blankets that have fallen from the bed. He throws them back onto the mattress before removing the extra articles of his clothing and lowering into the place beside her on the bed. It is cold without someone warming it, and the space feels as though it's meant to be his. He wonders briefly how long he's been missing out on this because of their pride.

Hawke stretches out and closes her eyes. Anders pulls the blanket over the both of them before placing an across her stomach, to which she brushes a hand over. He inches closer to her until his breath begins hitting her shoulder, and she releases a shaky sigh. He closes his eyes, not watching her, not knowing if she will regret her request under what he is sure would be an intense stare.

"I'm sorry." Hawke knows it is her mood talking, that she's reeling from the loss of her mother. She's scared, but she knows they will never move forward if she doesn't speak up now, and she wants so badly for them to move forward. She needs them to. His breathing pauses, and she strokes his arm with a thumb, deciding to continue. "I have been hard on you."

"You're grieving."

"Before this." She swallows. "Before all of this. I'm sorry."

Unable to resist, Anders opens his eyes. She remains still, hair pooled around her and eyes shut, but he knows she's waiting for his response. He ducks his head, smiling into her shoulder. "Would you like to see the rest of my manifesto?"

With a visible scoff, she rolls over to face away from him, but she positions herself even closer to his form than before, and he knows she is not truly angry with him. Relief floods him in that moment as he realizes the weight of her words, realizes he would gladly spend every night at her side if she so lets him, and he leans forward to places kisses on the back of her neck.

It is the first night they spend together, and it will be the first morning either of them wake happier than they were the day before.


End file.
